Change of Season
by HappierThanMost
Summary: A hard year after so much loss, Pony works to regain his fighting spirit, and Darry works at being the parent that Pony needs.


_I'm back, once again exploring the relationship of Darry and Pony! Lately I've been focused on the time period of pre-novel and how they fall into, and sometimes fight their new roles of guardian and kid. But this one will be post-novel. For those who know all of my stories intertwine but are written extremely out of order, I'll let you know this would fall right at the end of the summer of Date Night. In that one-shot, Pony's fifteen, feeling stuck, and realizing how dependent he's become on Darry. I like to think they finally accept their roles and become as close to father/son as two brothers could be.._

 **CHANGE OF SEASON**

While I wait, I bite my thumbnail, stare out the window at the parking lot and notice the sun's rays are slanting a little more each day, and Fall waits for me again, just around the corner. By the temperatures you wouldn't know it, but by those tiny differences like the way the light hits the earth in the afternoons, you can somehow sense it coming.

That ain't the only thing I sense coming. Darry Curtis is on his way to pick me up from the principal's office, and there's no escaping the storm he's bound to bring with him. I can't help bouncing my leg, and the girl I'm sitting beside gives me a scowl for making her chair shake by my fidgeting, so I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees, forcing them still. With clasping hands, I look down at my battered sneakers and focus on the marks and rips, trying to decide which ones I caused and which ones Soda made when they belonged to him.

You'd think it was a police station, how horribly guilty I feel, scared and waiting for bail, until the secretary with a sweet voice says to the guy at the counter that's signing out, "Mitchell remember to bring your dentist note when you return tomorrow," and I'm reminded it's only a high school and maybe, just maybe it ain't the end of the world. God I wish I was Mitchell. I'd rather have a tooth filled than deal with Darry.

Just then I feel the swoosh of air when doors are opened, and he comes in freshly showered and only gives me a sideways glance as he goes up to the desk. The secretary stops with Mitchell's note and tends to my brother immediately, shuffling papers and clearing her throat, batting her lashes. His stance alone has always been enough to demand instant attention without him ever having to try at all. Ms. Carter whisks Darry into Mr. Lawson's inner lair, but not before he turns around and gives me an iced glare that makes my stomach crawl up into my throat.

"Geez your dad sure is young," the girl next to me whispers, and Mitchell at the counter nods in agreement. I don't have the strength to correct them as the air deflates from my lungs.

The meeting's taking longer than expected, but I feel a little more at ease once I hear Lawson coming towards the closed door, his voice almost jovial, bringing up something about football and maybe, hopefully Darry's glory days? He opens the door and beckons me in without even looking my way, too immersed in some story about how the booster club chairman embezzled the profits they made off the car wash last spring.

I walk in and can tell Darry's feigning interest. "I heard something about that Mr. Lawson," he says, using the voice he reserves for all the adults that he's been forced to interact with for awhile now. For good measure he asks the balding, bloated principal, "What's the world coming to?" while staring dead at me. I sheepishly walk to the empty seat that's backed against the wall, but before I sit Darry reaches back and pulls it easily across the carpet next to his, and I'm now parked right up beside him. I think I can feel the tension and heat that are coming off of him in waves.

Embarrassed with Darry there to witness Mr. Lawson reprimanding me, I'm a little relieved it's nothing compared to the harsh tongue lashing I'd received before my brother arrived, and I recognize Darry must've lightened Mr. Lawson's heart a little, since I'm only suspended for the rest of the day. I can come back to school after the weekend and participate in next week's track meet as long as I turn in a five hundred word essay by Monday morning, its theme on fighting and why it's not tolerated at Will Rogers, that it's never the answer and goes against all that a good WRHS Roper stands for. He also adds that I should include an apology for my poor choices as well as the disgrace I brought to the entire lunchroom today. I'm too relieved about track to protest any of it, and I do my best to hide my disgust of how unfair and humiliating this is, not to mention I was the only one dragged out of the melee and into this office. But I'm too scared of Darry to show anything but respect and I nod and say "Yes sir, thank you sir, I'll have it to you first thing Monday morning." I feel like such a dope.

Following behind Darry, eyes downcast, I watch my torn up, dirty shoes as they walk me down the school steps, past all the scraps of paper and dirty gum wads on the sidewalk, and up into the dusty truck. We don't say a word on the drive home, and I'm actually calmed by the silence. Soda always says he'd rather Darry yell at him than be so angry he becomes that eerie kind of silent. Not me. I'd pick a quiet, stewing Darry over a screaming lunatic Darry any day of the week. Problem is I trick myself into thinking it'll all blow over without the explosion that's guaranteed, as soon as he's found his words that always erupt from deep inside him, shattering the dead calm without any warning whatsoever.

I'm so used to being treated unfairly, I hardly have the energy to try and explain my way out of this trouble. "Darry, I wasn't the one who started it," is all I manage to get out, wanting him to at least know I had reason for wrestling Andy Stanwick across the full length of a lunch table, bringing a dozen trays of meatloaf and mashed potatoes crashing to the floor.

Darry doesn't answer, and I just shake my head and stare out at the few leaves that have already started to turn colors, the sign they've reached their end after a long summer, tired and ready to lie down and give up the fight, but not without a show of fire, their last brilliance even while dying.

It's almost been a year.

Darry stops abruptly at the curb in front of the house and nods for me to get on out. He must be heading back into work and I feel terrible for this afternoon interruption that forced him to take an extra shower in the middle of the day. I want to say sorry but instead stare at him and try to remember what Dad looked like when he was mad. I'm beginning to fuse the two together in my mind. And I'm not sure if that makes me feel comforted or incredibly sad.

Surprisingly his tone just sounds tired but firm when he finally looks at me, "Go on Pony. You best start on that essay." My guilt triples when he says, "Tell Soda I'm doing office work for Mr. Carlson tonight to make today's hours up, and I'll be late. I'll read over your paper when I get home."

Unlike the dying leaves, I lack the brilliance, the spark that used to drive me to the end of every fight, every false accusation, the need for fairness and for the last word, and instead climb out of the truck in defeat.

Darry drives off and I spend the afternoon staring at a blank piece of paper, with a writer's block so strong I feel sure the college ruled lines will never be filled with all those ass-kissing sentences I'm expected to deliver. I notice the days are shorter now as Soda rolls in with a Gino's pizza after the sun has long set, and I'm relieved to unload everything that happened. He listens to all of it before changing out of his work clothes, taking it all in with a look of understanding. He assures me Darry's just pissed being called in, having to leave work and come in to play adult. That if I just explain what I was fighting for, he'll see it more clearly.

I can't help but let a short laugh escape at Soda's statement. "Maybe Darry would understand three years ago, but not this Darry." Soda seems to take that into account, but still plows forward.

"Darry's a stand up guy Pony. He knows when you absolutely have to fight for something," and I can tell he's remembering their days of old.

I retreat to my room and begin writing, and for the first time in a long time, I write as if nobody will read it. I write until my hand cramps and I realize Darry's been home awhile now, having heard the muffled conversations out in the kitchen. When my work's as finished as it'll ever be, I go to the bathroom and wash the pencil smudge off my hands, study myself in the mirror and decide my hair has grown back from last year's blonde a darker shade than my original. Not nearly as much red anymore. Nothing about me is the same.

I find Darry at the kitchen table eating warmed up pizza. Soda, suddenly silent from his seat up on the countertop, had stopped their conversation when he heard me coming. Darry has his glasses on, which means his eyes are tired, and I wordlessly hand him my paper. He merely sets it aside, even gives me a "Good job," and that's it. I figure the awkward silence means they were discussing me, so I leave them to it and head for my room, shove open the window and light a smoke.

* * *

"Darry I think this fight is a good sign. At least he's showin' somethin'," Soda continues, and I swear if he swings his feet against those bottom cabinets one more time.

I've had all afternoon and evening of filing papers and punching numbers to calm down, to come to the same conclusion as Soda. After nearly a year of watching Pony just go through the motions, lost in some fog of depression, a little bit of fire is hopeful to see, but he can't be caught fighting at school, risking his future on some lunchroom brawl. "Thanks for the pizza," I say, letting Soda know the conversation's closed.

Soda hops down, steals one of my crusts, flops in his chair and keeps on going, obviously not finished. "Darry ain't you been worried about him? You saw what a hermit he was this summer. Never went anywhere but our front porch and Crutchfield to work. And now it's comin' up a year. He ain't been actin' right at all. I'm glad he stood up for somethin'."

"You think I ain't noticed? Hell, I'm pushin' him to be friends with Curly Shepard of all people. Just to go out and be a kid for Christ's sake." I take Soda's cue to lower my escalating voice. "I don't know, I guess he's grieving, but maybe that's what he's been needing to do. Didn't really get much of a chance after Mom and Dad, not even a year before all the other shit knocked him off his feet." I don't need to mention the fact that Pony's essentially been my shadow for some time now, turning a 180 after all the head butting and arguments that used to define us, and I've done my best to just be present, never knowing if that's enough.

And Soda thinks he needs to remind me of this? As if my life hasn't consisted of this and only this? He doesn't know the half of it. And I'll never admit the real reason Laura dumped me last spring, unwilling to put up with all the nights I had to stay in. She told me she couldn't be tied down to a guy who's essentially a dad raising some kid, raising Pony, and though it's no question I'd choose him every time, it still hurt to watch her walk out of my life.

I hold all of it in and slowly stand, my body creaking back into alignment, but I manage to give Soda a tired smile before I head to my room, grabbing Pony's paper, the last thing I want to be reading.

What Pony doesn't know is that I get it. He thinks I didn't notice Mr. Lawson wasn't bitching out anybody but Ponyboy. He thinks I wasn't pissed that my brother was the only one involved to be accused and punished. But I know how to play the game and he'd better learn quick. I know it's not easy to take your lumps and choke on the bitter. But that's how you get ahead in our warped world and it's something Soda will never accept. I don't even bother explaining it to him. But Pony has the composure to swallow the bitter, take the unfair knocks and climb his way out of this neighborhood straight to the top. Life isn't fair and I can't have him ruin his with fighting. But that doesn't mean I'll easily stomach this essay, reading the apology he's been forced to write and the shame he's been forced to wear in begging for forgiveness. When all he was trying to do was stand up for some poor girl. Soda already gave me the story.

I climb into bed and begin the task. I take in the slanted loops of his cursive, the perfect grammar and punctuation, the amount of thought and weight in every chosen word. And the truth he's delivered in five hundred of them. The truth of why _fighting is most definitely necessary when situations are unjust, when the moment calls for nothing less than a good clean hit. When something inside you rises for the strike, when the Innocent needs the Protector_. Cold chills spread through me and I realize I'm smiling, devouring every sentence, and look over at a picture of Dad and remember...

 _I'm not much more than ten and my face stings as Dad patches me up after my fight with Charlie Cooper. The one that got me sent home. He sits on the tub's edge with soothing sympathy, running the cool washcloth over my cut, careful of the bruising, talking in his smooth Southern drawl all the while. "Darry, you gotta choose your battles, ya hear? But as long as you feel the ground you stand on is solid and worth it, then I want you to fight like hell. Never take your eye off your target though. And for God's sake Darry, lean in on every punch."_

Sometimes I forget who I am, and where I came from. And tonight, I'm reminded by my father's youngest son. And I fall asleep writing a different essay, grateful that Pony seems to finally be getting back to himself. Proud of who he's becoming.

I don't run into Ponyboy the whole next day, not until suppertime, and he sits at the table looking worried, sure that my reaction to his essay will be anger. He eyes it sitting next to me and goes ahead with the apology. "Sorry about that paper, I don't know what got into me. I'll write another one."

His eyes widen when I look straight into them and tell him, "I loved what you wrote and I agree with all of it." And his smile is relief and pride mixed together. I hate that I have to go on. "But you can't turn it in Ponyboy. That's not how this works." He doesn't like it, but nods knowing I'm right. He wants to run and compete next week, he wants to go to school without trouble, he wants to live his life a bit more smoothly than it's been running lately.

He finally says, "You're right. I can't turn that in," but I notice he's sitting up straight, there are no slumped shoulders, no look of defeat. He gets it. He knows what he has to do to make it. And I see he's already swallowed that bitter right on down.

"Just copy this one," I say and hand him my own paper. "I wrote five hundred and seven words last night that'll have Mr. Lawson thinking you're God's gift to Will Rogers High." I roll my eyes but smile and Pony's mouth hangs open, not believing I actually did the work for him.

"Oh wow Darry, thank you, I mean really thanks," are his words, but his voice says it all.

* * *

Soda and I walk up to the stands for Pony's track meet. My outgoing brother recognizes someone and takes off to shake some hands and get caught up on the gossip. I feel a little chill tucked somewhere on this western breeze and the metal bleachers are a cold surprise through the seat of my jeans. Fall's almost here and I can't believe it's almost been a year. Everything that's happened. The changes, the setbacks and the growth. I spot Pony talking with his friends and I'm thankful track has started up again. It's always a good distraction; the running seems to center him.

I don't even listen to the other parents anymore, sharing some laughs and bragging about their kids. I'm used to being the outcast among them and pretty much keep quiet, cheering on Pony with my claps and occasional whistling. But today a couple of people must finally consider me a parent. "Now which one is your boy again?" they ask, seeming friendly and genuinely interested.

I point in his direction and I can't wipe the smile from my face. "See the kid with the dark, shaggy hair? The one who's biting his nails right now? That one...he's mine." And he is.

 **A/N:** Outsiders by SE Hinton

 _The flashback is taken from Darry's memories In the Harsh Light of the Bathroom._

 _Thank you so much for reading!_


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